Dancing
by burnttongueontea
Summary: This is based on a prompt from tumblr user ughbenedict: John finds out Sherlock is a great dancer. One day he just comes to Sherlock's bedroom and dances with him.


**I originally wrote about twice as much for this story, but then I took half of it out when I published. Now, because I'm bored and I realised I quite liked it, I'm putting the first half back in. Also, on second thoughts, I edited the ending slightly. **

* * *

He's not supposed to be spending his and Mary's anniversary with Sherlock.

He knows it's not so important this year because they're planning their wedding and that's the biggest celebration of their relationship he can imagine; he knows Mary didn't want to be called away to do that report in Berlin but she didn't have a choice; he knows he's luckier than he can possibly explain to even _have _Sherlock here to spend time with. So he's not upset. It's not really fair for him to be upset.

But it's been twenty minutes and he can't stop talking about it and Sherlock is starting to wear a face that threatens to chuck him out on the street if he doesn't shut up. They are sitting on their respective armchairs in the Baker Street flat, John with his chin in his hands and babbling morosely away at Sherlock, who is motionless, in his favourite stance with hands pressed together at his lips and eyes turned heavenward as if in prayer. Maybe he's praying for Lestrade to come bursting in with an urgent case to provide distraction, or possibly just brandishing a pair of handcuffs to forcibly remove John from the building.

"Hey," John says, unsure how to derail himself from this particular track. "Why don't _we_ have dinner instead?"

Sherlock doesn't change his expression of perfect derision. He simply moves it so that it is focused on John and not the ceiling.

"I mean. Obviously we were going to eat something. But since it's supposed to be a celebration this evening, I don't see why we shouldn't get something nice. Something better than pasta anyway."

"You're suggesting that we complete your plan for tonight with Mary? Something better than pasta, followed by an attempt to dance romantically with her in your living room? It's not quite my scene."

"An _attempt _to dance?" John repeats. "What are you suggesting about my dancing? And -" he knows by now it's a stupid question but he can never resist asking it anyway - "how did you know about that?"

"The CD in the inside pocket of your jacket, John, it's not exactly deduction. Nobody buys ballroom dancing music unless they have at least a vague desire to ballroom dance."

"And what is it you have to say about my dancing...?"

"I'm suggesting that you have insufficient knowledge of the required technique. Also that, while you have excellent military posture, I doubt that your co-ordination is fine-tuned enough to be able to combine the precision of footwork with the rhythmic awareness that makes for successful dancing."

He is sure that Sherlock knows exactly how much this is going to piss him off. He narrows his eyes, and takes the bait, as usual.

"What would you know about it? I might be a very good dancer."

"I had dancing lessons when I was teenager. So no, John. You have many fine qualities, but a very good dancer you are not."

"You had dancing lessons? You?"

"Yes," confirms Sherlock, in a bored tone of voice, as if there is nothing interesting about this. "My mother had very fixed ideas about its usefulness."

"What, you went down to the leisure centre with your leotard in your bag and joined all the other little girls and boys in the dance studio?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. We had a private tutor who came to our home."

"Wait. But this is ballroom dancing? So you have to dance with a girl for that."

"Not necessarily, for purposes of practice. Two men can dance together if one of them assumes the position of the female. We took it in turns to lead."

"And the person you would be taking turns with...?"

"Mycroft. Obviously."

"Mycroft!"

"Why are you surprised?"

"I'm just trying to picture it, Sherlock. You and Mycroft... dancing together... were you any good?"

"I was good. He was bad."

"Oh, come on."

"What?"

"I just can't believe it." John pauses. "Will you prove it?"

He means it to come out as a tease, as a mocking demand, but it ends up just sounding hopeful. Of course it's funny to picture Sherlock dancing with his most detested, pompously stiff brother. But actually picturing Sherlock dance individually is not so bad. After all, he is a musician. Besides this, he is a graceful man, light on his feet, and surprisingly strong... yes. He can picture it.

"There's not enough space in here."

John glances around. He's right. The floor is covered in piles of books, papers, pieces of string, maps, glasses of unidentified liquids, inexplicable objects like a bonsai tree and a jar of buttons, and several pairs of shoes which do not belong to Sherlock or anybody John knows. To his eyes, it looks like a chaotic mess. But he's experienced enough to know that everything has its place and purpose according to Sherlock's mind, and must not be moved.

"Alright," he says. "Your room then. We can put the bed up against the wall. That should leave plenty of space."

"You will find it disappointing."

"Try me."

Sherlock purses his lips. John can see the dilemma work through his agile mind. He can say no and take the risk that he will have to listen to stories about Mary Morstan and her all-consuming work schedule a little longer; or he can say yes, and be forced to actually disrupt his bedroom, and put up with John's dancing.

"I suppose we might as well," he replies.

* * *

"As I am taking on the lead, and in normal circumstances that would make me your suitor, I would place my left hand on your waist. Like this. You would put your right hand on my shoulder... I said _right _hand, John."

"Alright, alright."

"Now I would take your free hand in mine, and we would hold them a short distance away from our bodies. Not so far as to be stiff, but preferably not a noticeable bend at the elbow. Given the length of your arm, and mine, I would suggest an ideal distance of around 67 centimetres?"

"Like this?"

"That's probably closer to sixty, but it will do. John, I don't have a hope of teaching you any footwork, we'd be here for hours. Do you think you could just follow me? You'll be cumbersome but -"

"Lead away, Sherlock."

They begin to dance. He hasn't put on any music but he seems to be obeying a strict rhythm that exists in his head; his bare feet dart across the floor as regular as clockwork. John tries to copy his movements, but the time lag causes them to fall out of step, and their toes collide.

"John! Stop looking at your feet."

"If I'm not looking at my feet how am I supposed to do it right?"

"You're not going to do it right. So just do it in time. You'll find it much easier if you look up at me. I don't know... imagine you are some young debutante being swept away by the dashing eldest son of a wealthy landowner."

"Oh, roleplay, is it?" suggests John with a smirk.

"Try humour. Or, if you think you can, shut up."

They readjust themselves. Sherlock pulls on his waist to bring him closer, as he has unintentionally drifted away, and catches his gaze with an expression that demands he maintain eye contact.

They begin again.

This time it's different. John doesn't think about his feet. Because Sherlock has on his usual expression of concentration, the one he wears when trying to shake the truth out of a case like a coin from a piggybank, but this time it's not directed at a crime scene or a dead body or a slide under the microscope. It is directed at him. John knew that gaze was intense, but now realises he has never fully appreciated just how much.

Those painfully bright eyes are on him and off him at the same time. Sherlock is fixed sharply on his face, keeping him focused, but he is not thinking about John at all. He is thinking about the music in his mind; he is thinking about the elegant line of movement in the dance; he is thinking about keeping his hands on John and his feet in their predetermined sequence of steps. John feels as if he can actually _see _it all happening in there. He feels stitched into place with threads that go directly from his brain to Sherlock's. He's not actually sure he even has feet to think about.

Moving across the room, they shift into the wide channel of sunset glow cast through the window. Flaming coral-coloured light illuminates Sherlock's cheekbones. John blinks suddenly and has feet again. He lets go; they break apart.

"What?" asks Sherlock.

"Sorry," John replies, still blinking a little. "Nothing. A bit light-headed, that's all. Too much rotation."

"It does take a little getting used to. Are you finished with your curiosity?"

John considers this. Then he shakes his head. They take hold of one another again, hands slipping into place, but before moving, Sherlock hesitates.

"I think I may have been unfair to you," he says.

"What?"

"You're a diamond in the rough, John. But you are, actually, not a bad dancer."

"What's this? An admission of error from the great Mr Holmes?"

"Don't spoil it."

"Okay."

With a little suppressed laughter this time, they dance.


End file.
